Page 21 of Sullied Saints

That has him straightening. "Tell me."

I do. The boot print, the position of the body, the sloppy marks left around.

Tristan nods slowly. "It’s not her."

"You're so sure?"

He's pacing back towards his desk. "She was neat in everything she did, always. OCD, but not quite. I can't imagine she'd have gotten any less extreme on that. Her crime scenes show that clearly enough, never any trace or anything like a lead." Looking at me, Tristan concludes, "Your partner is right. What reason would she have to hide her identity now? To wear wrong-sized boots? She's out there, she knows you know it, you just can't find her."

"Then who did this?"

"A new, poorer copycat. A fan probably."

"And how do we catch them?"

"You probably already can. If you stop assuming it’s her. They're sloppy. Follow whatever else they left behind."

I nod and stand up. Before I turn for the door, I tilt my head at him. "Are you enjoying your new accommodation?"

The corners of his mouth lift. "It’s much more peaceful. Thank you, Eleanor."

Suddenly awkward, I turn for the door again. What can I say?It’s the least I can do?That he shouldn't even be in here?

I don't know anymore if he should be. Plenty of people sure seem to think he shouldn't.

***

The phone rings out, no answer. I sigh and return it to the cradle. I should go to bed. It’s late. Even calling Dirk once has been too much of a wound to my pride. And now I'm wondering, if he’s not home at this hour, where is he? A painful pang of jealousy has me turning away, busying myself with mundane tidying that can't really distract my thoughts.

But the ideas are going to torture me, I know that. There's no alcohol in the apartment anymore. I’ve finally poured out the last of it. And thank goodness, because my fingers twitch now with the urge rearing its ugly head. But at least they don’t shake anymore. I drag my hands back over my face. Nothing hurts quite the same as jealousy- an ugly, crushing emotion that only serves to build on itself.

A bath and some nice music, that’s what I'll do. Sleep be damned. If I go to bed, I'll just lie there anyway.

Half an hour later I'm lying back, surrounded by more bubbles than I really intended on, but I'm not complaining. And indeed, it’s actually working, as I close my eyes and listen to the music playing from my bedroom speaker, I feel my shoulders relax, tension I didn't know I was holding melting in the hot water. I give a long sigh, mind drifting, half asleep as I gently soap myself.

When my mind drifts to Dirk, I tell myself I'm just trying to solve the weird situation we've gotten ourselves into, but then I'm thinking about the situation more than the solution. Of last time, his apartment, the way his mouth felt so hot, the hard steel of him in my hand, his body, made weak by me. My fingers are tracing idly up my thighs.Thatwould put me to sleep…

I gasp, spluttering and coming abruptly back to reality as a very loud knocking, almost like someone attempting to break in, thumps on the door of my apartment. The doors through my bedroom and to the living room are open, and I hear the knocking again even as I scrabble to run a towel over myself and throw my robe on, stumbling past my bed and out to the living area.

As I get there, Dirk is already inside, the door closed behind him.

"Dirk?" I ask, aghast, as I stop in my bedroom door.

He's wearing a black jacket and black jeans, thin snow dusting the tops of his shoulders and caught in his hair. "You don't lock your door?" he asks, as though I'm the one out of place.

I march over, checking the bolt. "IthoughtI locked my door." Then I turn to him, still flustered, the air cool after the heat of the bathwater. "What are you doing here?"

"Apparently, checking your security."

I give him a look.

Dirk ducks his head. "I figured it was my turn to come and try to solve all our problems. Instead of waiting for you again."

Softening a little, I shift from foot to foot. "I, uh, may have left you a somewhat…" I search for the right word, wrinkle my nose and admit, "Aggravatedmessage on your answering machine."

His lips twitch. Eyes drifting down my robe, he asks, "Were you in bed? I heard music, that’s why I tried the door."

"I was in the bath."

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